Broken by Matthew Storm Read Free Book Online Page A

presented this way because that was where Davies wanted me
to start? Was he manipulating me?
    How did
cops usually work missing persons cases? I’d really only seen them on
television, and I didn’t have a sassy partner to banter with until some plot
contrivance came along and broke the case open for us. Taking a look at Heather’s
condo seemed like a reasonable place to start, though. For all I knew Heather
and Anna were both up there and this was all a huge misunderstanding.
    My hands
were starting to tremble. It was time for a little maintenance. I went back
into the kitchen and didn’t bother with a glass this time. I took one good swallow
out of the nearest open vodka bottle, then chased it with the other half of the
V-8. That should be enough to keep the shakes at bay for a while, but not enough
that I was going to need a nap.
    I found
a large envelope and counted out $5,000 of the cash Davies had given me into
it. The rest of the money I tucked under my mattress. It wasn’t the world’s
best hiding place, but it would do for now.
    My house
had a garage attached with a connecting door in the hallway next to the laundry
room. I had an old Mustang Cobra parked inside, and a Kawasaki Ninja next to
it. I hadn’t been on the motorcycle in years. Balance was a critical part of
riding a bike, and I didn’t have much balance to speak of anymore. Maybe if I managed
to stay sober for a few days I could get the bike cleaned up and take it out.
It would need some work first. The battery was probably dead and I was sure it
could use an oil change and fresh fluids, but that wouldn’t take me long to do.
But what were the odds I’d ever be sober long enough to do any of that? Not
very good.
    I
started the Mustang and put the envelope full of cash on the passenger seat
next to the Davies file. As my garage door rolled up I held my hands out in
front of me and watched them for a moment. They were far from steady, but they
weren’t shaking. I should be able to pass as a normal person for a few hours,
at least.
    When the
garage door was open I pulled out and then waited as it rolled shut. The
Mustang’s controls felt unfamiliar to me, a little like being behind the wheel
of a new car for the first time. It had been a while since I’d driven. Most of
the things I needed from day to day were located within easy walking distance.
Well, the walking was less easy than it used to be. These days I needed to rest
after I’d gone two blocks. Three felt like a marathon.
    Heather’s
condo in La Jolla was arguably closer than my landlord’s place in La Mesa, but
I didn’t want to leave the car with $5,000 in cash sitting in it, envelope or
not. It took me about ten minutes to navigate Ocean Beach’s narrow streets
until I reached I-10, and then I was headed east on the freeway.
    Rush
hour was winding down but there was still plenty of traffic heading towards the
bedroom communities east of San Diego. I set the cruise control for two miles
per hour under the speed limit and concentrated on keeping the car centered in
my lane. I wasn’t drunk by a long shot, but I probably wouldn’t pass a
breathalyzer test if I got pulled over. Any CHP officer that recognized me
probably wouldn’t ticket me for a DUI, but odds were Dan Evans wouldn’t be
thrilled when his home phone rang and he was asked if he could send someone out
to pick up his former detective.
    La Mesa
was about twenty minutes away. I hadn’t seen the Harrisons in a few years.
Usually I just mailed them a check for the rent, but I wasn’t about to go
deposit ten thousand dollars in cash in the bank. That was what drug dealers
did. Stupid drug dealers, anyway. Handing that much cash to a bank teller was
like saying, “I’d really like the IRS to come visit me at my house.” And ever
since 9/11, the FBI might come along with them just to check and see if you
were hiding any of bin Laden’s relatives in your closet.
    The
Harrisons lived on a quiet cul-de-sac on the eastern